


Mister Fahrenheit

by FacetiousKitten



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (but not possessive), Abuse of italics, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley has to Face His Emotions Like An Emotionally Mature Being, Fanart, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Crowley, Unnecessary Capitalization of First Letters, copious parodies of male enhancement products, could be considered crack?, how to relationship?, naming fics after Queen lyrics like a cool kid, touch of fluff (maybe more than a touch), yes the Bentley is a character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25450879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FacetiousKitten/pseuds/FacetiousKitten
Summary: It was when Aziraphale, fluttering and twitchy, kissed him for the first time that Crowley realized just how much he had to protect.After Armageddon failed to perform, Crowley and Aziraphale have no reason not to advance their long, storied relationship.  As they stumble through this budding romance, Crowley feels more protective than ever before. He and Aziraphale only have each other now that they are onOur Side.This leads Crowley to try products straight from Hell, called hellfire enhancements. Unforeseen consequences occur. Namely, junk mail.  Lots andlotsof junk mail.The thing about Hellish junk mail is that there is no escape. It will plague you until you break, and then a little bit further, because why the Heaven not?And it is all too easy to get on Hell's mailing list.Ultimately, the problem brings the two of them closer together… except when said problem interrupts certain firsts in this exciting new phase of their relationship.Brought to you byBrimstone Blast!Want your hellfire to burn hotter, longer? Want bigger, smokier flames? Then try Brimstone Blast today!With art by Gayngels!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 51
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. That's Why They Call Me Mister Fahrenheit

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a collaboration between myself and Gayngels for the [Do It With Style Mini Bang](https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/). This was the first time either of us participated in an event like this, and it has been an absolute ball.
> 
> Find more amazing art by Gayngels on [tumblr](https://sun-glasses-at-night.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/gayngels)! You should follow them because they're pretty dang cool.
> 
> Alrighty. On with the show!

It was when Aziraphale, fluttering and twitchy, kissed him for the first time that Crowley realized just how much he had to protect.

_He had always wanted to protect the angel, always wanted to keep the angel safe. But now, the desire to protect sank deeper, sealed into his bones, even the bones of his true form, by the angel’s kiss._

They’d been chatting at Aziraphale’s bookshop, drinking tea for warmth on a cold day. Hadn’t even touched any alcohol! Crowley sat on the antique sofa, and Aziraphale sat next to him, as was his habit these days.

_That was something they could do now. Sitting together. Letting their elbows brush. Knees bumping, shoulders jostling._

The next little while was a blur of chatter, laughter, eye rolls, more laughter. A pause. Appreciating the shared comfort of an easy silence. A sip of tea. Rustle of fabric.

_Was he getting closer? They never got this close. The sparkle of those blue eyes – or were they green or gray or silver Crowley could never decide – nearing, nearing, nearing close, so close. That mouth, that pink pout…_

_**Oh.** _

* * *

A terrible trope, a failing of human society, the way some people become possessive of a romantic partner once they are physically intimate. That was not how Crowley felt. He had never wanted to possess Aziraphale – neither in the human sense nor the demonic sense. Aziraphale belonged to himself, not to Heaven, not to Earth, and certainly not to Crowley. How could he, this wiry, craggy slice of a snake, desire to own Aziraphale? How could he desire anything more than to liberate the marvelous, infuriating being from Heaven’s clutches and allow him to bloom into an ever more radiant version of himself? **[1]**

No, Crowley wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ be possessive, not when Aziraphale was finally free to live as he chose. To enjoy all that he could without Heaven breathing down his neck. Denying someone their hard-won freedom? Absolutely not. That was a shitty way to be, for one. For two, Aziraphale was _way_ too entertaining once he really let loose.

And this thing, the kissing, was pretty entertaining, too. Really fucking entertaining, if Crowley were being honest.

But, it also lit up something in his chest, somewhere in the area of his corporation’s cold, dead heart. Aziraphale always did that, didn’t he? Enlivened Crowley, breathed life into him as surely as God breathed into Adam. **[2]** It had always been indirect, before, but here they were, their unpracticed, messy mouths pressed together, with Aziraphale literally breathing the light of love into a demon. **[3]**

He just wanted to protect Aziraphale. The angel had to stay safe. _No one_ could hurt him, ever. Not Heaven, not Hell. He was too precious. The only angel who mattered.

Aziraphale was careful with how he went about this, gingerly pressing his mouth to Crowley’s again and again before daring to open a scant millimeter. Each and every nerve ending caught in the fray sizzled. Crowley went a tad dizzy with it, and had to brace himself against the sofa back. **[4]**

He cupped a palm over Aziraphale’s jaw, applying slight pressure to guide the angle of the kiss, and simply to feel more of him. Crowley had never gotten terribly good at kissing, far as he could tell – he’d never seen the purpose of mushing damp orifices together – but he _thought_ this was a good way to go about it. It certainly _felt_ good, if nothing else. Focused on keeping his tongue in its more humanoid shape, he chanced brushing it against Aziraphale’s bottom lip. The tiny aperture expanded and through it, Aziraphale’s tongue rose to meet Crowley’s.

All those times he’d stared at Aziraphale’s mouth, wondered how it would feel, how it would taste… And now, he knew.

How to describe it? Sunshine peeking through clouds after a storm? Budding flowers after a harsh winter? Satin sheets and goose down pillows after a long day? No. It was… It just… It was _just…_ Being a demon of temptation, Crowley knew how to spin pretty words, but a few kisses between _Our Side_ rocketed all of them from his brain to the moon.

He did know good, though, as demons were meant to do the opposite. And this? This was good. Good and right.

The weight on his arm that was Aziraphale’s hand increased, then trembled, and finally pulled away. Aziraphale’s lips pulled away next, abruptly. Crowley chased them with his own, too transported to notice he’d done it.

“Oh. Ohhh, goodness.” If voices could flutter, then that’s exactly what Aziraphale’s did. His hands did as well, around his chest; one finally landed over his smile. “I enjoyed that rather more than expected,” he whispered.

Crowley didn’t know it, but his slow, stunned blinking was a precise repeat of what he did in response to _“_ _I gave it away!”_ while standing on a garden wall all those centuries ago.

“Don’t misunderstand, please. I- I thought it would be nice, with you,” Aziraphale said. “But it’s never felt like that before.” He gasped, and his hands fluttered some more, though without a general end goal. “I shouldn’t mention prior, ah, activities. Terrible timing. I’m sorry.”

Crowley could have said so much, sung a hundred songs, recited a thousand poems. Could have told Aziraphale that his delicious cupid’s bow lips (wasn’t _that_ a bit on the nose) were like nothing he had experienced.

What he _did_ say, instead: “Don’t be. Honestly, I thought the same thing. About, er.” Crowley waved in a vague circle. “There being no comparison.”

Not his smoothest moment. Yet, here was Aziraphale, precisely repeating the look of gratitude he had in response to _“I don’t think you_ can _do the wrong thing”_ on that old garden wall.

“Oh! Oh, thank you,” he said. “You’re too kind.”

“Aaaaand the moment’s gone.” Crowley withdrew, crossing his arms.

Aziraphale greatly resembled a fluffy, pale deer in headlights for a split second, before his face fell into a scowl better suited to a polar bear staring down a rival moose. **[5]**

“Of all the times to be contrary, why do-”

Turning him with a gentle touch to his cheek, Crowley cut the question off with another kiss. Aziraphale made a hilarious noise of surprise, and Crowley couldn’t help breaking away with a laugh.

“You can’t silence me with kisses, you scoundrel.”

“Simply couldn’t resist.” He caught Aziraphale in his Temptation Gaze® and tossed his arm over the back of the sofa, roughly three atoms’ breadth from Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You’re irresistible, angel.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, but the coy flutter of his lashes gave him away.

Dropping the Temptation Gaze®, Crowley picked at a loose thread on the sofa’s decorative blanket just to have something to look at that wasn’t Aziraphale. He wanted, _needed_ to look un-invested, or at least composed. Would’ve been easier if he’d kept his bloody glasses on, but he’d tossed them, uh, _somewhere_ , when Aziraphale kissed him and made all his dreams come true.

“So, angel. What brought that on?”

“The, ah. Yes, the…”

“Mmhhhmmmm.” Crowley tapped a finger on the sofa. He might have used a touch of demonic power to make the tap resonate unnaturally well.

“Yes.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, patted his legs, cleared his throat again. Then he squared his shoulders and took Crowley’s hand from behind him to cradle it between both of his.

Aziraphale’s palms were soft and warm. There was a callous on one fingertip. Crowley had noticed it when they’d swapped places several months back, but forgot to ask about it.

“Crowley, dear. You are- well, you’re very dear to me. And I…” Aziraphale’s attention detoured, eyes darting around his bookshelves and copious knickknacks. Then, he forced himself to look directly at Crowley. “It’s high time that I demonstrate that. For- for me to show you just _how_ very dear you are to me.”

 _Dear_ was a word that Aziraphale used often, but not like this. Not toward Crowley.

“I’ve been terribly unkind to you in many ways for many years. You don’t like apologies, I’m aware of that, but I _must_ apologize for the abysmal things I’ve said and done.”

Crowley objected, said that Aziraphale didn’t owe him anything, but quieted at Aziraphale’s breathy “Please” and desperate expression. To keep his stupid trap shut, Crowley pinched his tongue between two sharp incisors.

“Truly, I am profoundly sorry for the nasty ways I’ve treated you. Assuming the worst of you, distancing myself from you with insults and toeing the party line from, well.” With a small bounce of his head, Aziraphale indicated a general upward direction.

How long had Aziraphale been thinking about this? His cadence was like a speech, penned in advance and heavily rehearsed.

“I don’t expect all of that to go away, and I’m not requesting forgiveness. You were always my friend, even when I couldn’t call you that. For some years, however, I- I- I’ve wanted- wondered if- if we-” That rehearsed cadence broke down, giving way to his nervous tics. Unaware of how his fingers clenched and fidgeted, Aziraphale took a deep breath. “It wasn’t my right, but I started thinking of you as being rather more significant to me than a friend. I have gotten the impression that you might, also, view me in a similar light.”

Shoving forced laughs through a forced smile, Aziraphale hurriedly added, “Of course it’s perfectly all right if I’m wrong. Should you prefer simple friendship then I would understand. And- and I shouldn’t imply that-that _friendship_ isn’t significant. You’re my best friend, truly, and I will _always_ treasure that. It’s just… I simply, you know…”

As the speech petered out, Crowley held up his free hand. “Angel. Stop. You’re not wrong. About the impression you got.” Grinning, he projected his cocky, Mr. Cool Guy persona. It fell a bit flat – could have made an undignified _plap_ sound on the floor, too, like a diver hitting the water’s surface in a belly flop – but the persona was the only raft Crowley had in the rising tide of emotion, and he clung to it like he might drown.

“Ah. Well. Jolly good.” Aziraphale’s face did a thing that looked like he might tear up, and happily, but also like he was stunned beyond voluntary action. At least Crowley could get a word in edgewise, now.

“And, that stuff about forgiveness, or whatever. Water off a duck’s back.” Thank _someone_ Crowley remembered the cliché this time. “I know why you acted like that. Us, our consorting, just being cordial put us both at risk. Friendship? The Arrangement?” He exhaled on a sigh which turned into a drawn out croak; the croak then turned into, “You were always the one drawing the reins in. Not one to throw caution to the wind, you. Had to keep me in check. Keep us safe.”

“Ultimately, that _is_ the duty of a principality. To protect.” Aziraphale was so quiet, his statement so soft.

“Yeah.”

“But it doesn’t excuse-”

“Shh. Doesn’t matter.” Indulging a long held fantasy, Crowley wrapped one of Aziraphale’s gravity defying curls around his finger. He would excuse anything for this, and for the quivering flame sputtering and flickering into life deep in his half-dead spirit.

“Things are different, now,” Crowley said. “You’re different, now. _We’re_ different.”

Aziraphale’s bottom lip quivered, and Crowley wanted to kiss the quiver away. _Which was something he could do now._ So he did. He did it for hours.

_In the middle of it all, the back of Crowley’s mind tickled with “the duty of a principality… to protect.”_

_High time to return the favor._

* * *

Heaven and Hell each publish a newspaper. **[6]** After bucking their overlords, Aziraphale and Crowley made certain to maintain their subscriptions to _The Celestial Observer_ and _The Infernal Times,_ respectively. The newspaper staffs didn’t pay attention to their subscriber lists, but if they did, they might’ve considered terminating Aziraphale and Crowley’s subscriptions. They wouldn’t have _actually_ terminated, though, because they were too disturbed by their tales of daring-do and impossible survival. Office gossip got around. _This_ gossip scared everyone too much to chance pissing off the indestructible freaks who showed their middle fingers to hellfire and holy water.

To quote the whole of angels and those-formerly-known-as-angels: “What even _was_ that?”

Aziraphale, confident that his holy water bath (in Crowley’s skin) left the infernal host shaking in their putrid boots, assumed that Hell wouldn’t trouble Crowley anymore. He also assumed that Crowley’s hellfire dance sufficiently terrified the heavenly host to keep Aziraphale off their radar. As for Heaven vs. Crowley or Hell vs. Aziraphale, his opinion was no different. What demon would pursue an angel who could withstand hellfire, and vice versa?

Now, on the topic of Crowley’s opinion? As the saying goes, just because you’re paranoid don’t mean they’re not after you. **[7]**

Despite being, ultimately, an optimist, Crowley didn’t share in Aziraphale’s assumptions. Crowley trusted Heaven as much as he did Hell, which was to say that he trusted both packs about as far as he could throw the Great Pyramid of Giza. He wanted to be prepared for anything that _they_ would throw at _him,_ or at Aziraphale. Even a pyramid. **[8]**

The one problem? The one question he kept asking himself? _How?_

How would they protect themselves?

* * *

Once or twice weekly, sometimes more, Crowley and Aziraphale went for coffee and mid-morning snacks at the cafe opposite the bookshop. It was a new custom, taken up after Adam Young’s short but epic game of whack-a-mole with Satan, and they kept to it those six months since Armageddon 1.0. **[9]**

A crucial function of the brunches **[10]** was the reading and then exchanging of newspapers. Crowley read his copy of _The Infernal Times_ , Aziraphale his _Celestial Observer._ Then, they swapped. Teamwork, safety in numbers, no rest for the- whatever the saying is… **[11]**

They no longer had direct correspondence with their former associates, and needed any and all information in the papers. Both were valuable sources, if heavily biased. (What information from above or below _wasn’t?_ Soviet Russia had less biased media.) Vital to survival, too, of which Our Side was fully aware, and the ginger member of it was especially aware. Distressingly, _horrendously_ aware, and even more aware since Aziraphale leaned across the middle of that sofa and mushed his eating orifice – ahem – touched his _mouth_ to Crowley’s. That flawless mouth, with its studied sarcasm, silly giggles, clever tongue, full lips-

Where were we? Oh, right.

Doddering ahead in their relationship – dipping their toes into the romance pool, as it were – didn’t alter their weekly custom a whit. Snacking, reading, swapping, and coffee-ing at one of these brunches was what Our Side was doing three days after The Kiss. More accurately, The _First_ Kiss. Having spent a half-dozen millennia aching to kiss but _not_ kissing, they certainly weren’t going to ignore the desire anymore.

Not that they were doing anything of the sort during brunch. They were far too shy for public displays of affection. They took their usual table – the one outside, in the sunlight, decent distance from the door, always miraculously available – and sat modestly across from one another. Didn’t test out so much as a smidge of footsie.

Aziraphale hummed approval for his sticky bun. Shaking _The Infernal Times_ , he then hummed disapproval.

“These advertisements are awful,” he said.

“You might recall, that paper is literally printed in Hell.” Crowley finished the _Observer’s_ article about the heavenly choir, thinking they could do with some soul music numbers, or at least some Schubert lieder. He quickly changed his mind, though, when he imagined some robotic angel attempting the intense, emotional “Erlkönig.” But, wouldn’t it be funny if a flock of those dunderheads performed “Georgia On My Mind” by Ray Charles? Or Aretha Franklin’s version of “Respect”? That struck him as so comical that he didn’t hear Aziraphale over the choral train wreck playing in his mind.

“Are you listening?” Aziraphale asked, snipping the question as if it could trim Crowley’s coif down to the scalp.

“Course, angel.”

“What did I just say?”

“Asked if I was listening.” Crowley smiled, too wide and placating. He knew the expression was wildly irritating. It had better be, after all the toil and trouble he’d put into perfecting it.

“Tingles, Crowley. I asked about _tingles._ ”

“… Uhhh, yeeees. Tingles.”

Clicking his tongue, Aziraphale tapped page four of _The Infernal Times_ , open on the table. “ This ludicrous advertisement.” He read aloud in an atrocious imitation of a carnival barker: “ _Hellfire has never been so strong – or so fun – before! Try_ _the_ _T_ _ingles_ _today!_ ”

“I’ve heard of that. Supposed to make hellfire tickle our fingers-” Crowley wiggled his in the air. Fingers, not hellfire. “When we summon it.”

“Absurd.” Aziraphale took a retaliatory bite of his pastry. “Do these products have _any_ discernible effect on hellfire?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Crowley skimmed the rest of _The Celestial Observer,_ but he absorbed very few details. Sat next to Aziraphale, he couldn’t ignore the symphony of pleasure the angel unleashed with every forkful of the little breakfast treat. He sounded like a condemned criminal at his final meal, finding himself inextricably and monstrously randy for sticky buns.

When the angel discovered something he enjoyed, like pastries, he _really_ enjoyed it. Crowley had always liked that about him. After all, demons were supposed to inspire indulgence and to delight in desires of the flesh. It was written into his DNA, insofar as demons had DNA.

However, he knew, had known for a long time, that he delighted in more about Aziraphale than his tendency toward indulgence. A willingness to bend the rules; an IQ off the charts, functioning in a brain with a greater operating capacity than anything Bill Gates could _dream_ of creating; a stubborn streak long as the Nile, wide as the Mississippi; and over it all, a carefully woven softness to comfort the downtrodden and lull the foolish into a false sense of security.

So how in the pope’s holy undergarments were Gabriel and the other archangels blind to Aziraphale’s exceptionalness- specialness- to his… How _good_ he was?

Wankers.

Crowley folded the _Observer_ and set it down. He propped his elbows on the table and luxuriated in one of his favorite hobbies: watching Aziraphale. The blonde dual-wielded the paper and the sticky bun, far too accustomed to Crowley’s stare to give a hoot about it.

“Well, I’m done with this one, Tingles and all,” Aziraphale said of _The Infernal Times_ after a number of minutes that was inconsequential to immortals; Crowley would have liked another hundred million. “Nothing unusual in the hellish happenings, far as I can tell. Shall I throw it away?”

“Think of the _Ti_ _ngles_ ,” Crowley said. But then he started to. Think, that is. Of the Tingles. Not just of the ones he got when he kissed Aziraphale, from his scalp to his heels, from his fingertips to his toes. Those were fun, but the ones in the ad might be useful.

Aziraphale slapped the _Times_ closed and reached for the _Observer_ , intending to dispose of both. Crowley blocked Aziraphale’s hand with his own.

“Want to look through it again, actually,” Crowley said.

Letting his fingers brush Crowley’s palm, Aziraphale retracted his hand. His eyes shot around the bustling sidewalk as a bashful smile shaped his lips. In turn, the unbidden memory of how those lips felt tugged at Crowley’s mind.

“What, ah, what caught your attention?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley said, dragging out the first syllable as a car with a failing transmission might, “Ehhh, thought it could stand a reread. Double check.” He scanned the front page for anything relevant. “Travel section’s about Tadfield.”

“Nothing seemed out of the ordinary there to me. But, I suppose we can’t be too careful.”

“Right.”

The waiter came out and left their bill on the table, saving Crowley from explanations.

“My treat,” Crowley said, and handed over his credit card. Sleek and black as his Bentley, the card was set to autopay each month from an overseas bank account. Crowley didn’t know whose money was in the account, only that they were far richer than was reasonable and that he would connect to a different overflowing bank account at year’s end. If the Richie Rich piece of work tried to track down whoever siphoned off his funds, they would spend a quarter year in bed, fatigued from the sheer confusion wrought by their search.

Aziraphale tucked his hands demurely in his lap. “Ah, Crowley. Would you like to, er, join me for an early dinner tomorrow evening?”

“Certainly.” Crowley pretended to read the Tadfield article, but was staring at the “Tingles” advertisement. _Would it really have any effect?_

“Splendid! Could I trouble you to drive? Because, I thought we might picnic. In the park.” Chuckling, Aziraphale sounded suddenly nervous. “Wouldn’t want to walk all the way there carrying a full basket.”

The nervous tone registered with Crowley. Slowly, he swiveled his head on his long neck to face his companion. “Aziraphale, are you asking me on a date?”

“That’s the term used these days, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Then… yes, I suppose I am.” Aziraphale looked very proud of himself, if extremely red.

The waiter brought the card back, and Crowley put it in his wallet. The wallet shouldn’t have fit in his very tight trousers’ very tight pockets, but such was the advantage of his supernatural origin. Physics cut him a break now and again.

Though he didn’t do a great job at it, Aziraphale was trying to maintain eye contact. “You’ve treated me to all these- these coffee dates, so I’d like to treat you,” he said.

Crowley got a heaping helping of that Aziraphale-centric tingly sensation in his chest. It threatened to show on his face, so he derailed that with a smirk. “Not very chivalrous, asking me out only to then make me drive.”

“You _would_ say-” Aziraphale stopped, and cleared his throat. “I’ll pack your favorites.”

One eyebrow raised, Crowley said, “Might have to miracle the basket. I have a lot of favorite wines, you know.”

“Naturally. Wouldn’t be a romantic dinner without wine, would it?”

Aziraphale smiled another bashful smile, intermittently meeting Crowley’s gaze from beneath fluttering eyelashes.

God be cursed and Satan be blessed. Crowley would do anything for this bastard.

* * *

Fresh off a walkabout of the flat, Crowley stopped in his plant room. He skulked, unmoving, and soaked up the fear that radiated from the plants. It was, to steal a word from Aziraphale, scrumptious, but he could use a bigger dose. Without looking, he reached for his pruning shears.

The plants trembled before he even touched the shears. Excellent. Keeping them on their toes, he was. **[12]** He stabbed the shears into the soil, missing the roots of one of his largest, oldest plants by millimeters. None of them were exempt from judgment. _None._

Crowley left the plant room through the spinning concrete door to enter the space which served as his office. He sat in his ostentatious, ornate chair – more like a throne, because although Anthony J. Crowley was lazy, he didn’t do style or fashion in half measures – and stared at _The Infernal Times._ It rested on his equally ornate table, behaving inoffensively. Ads covered the bottom portion of page four, and in the middle of that was the advertisement for Tingles.

“This could be a huge help,” he said, sawing his bottom jaw like it could take down a redwood. “Or a huge mistake.”

He had never used any sort of hellfire enhancement before. Didn’t much care for the whole fire and brimstone act. Only a few demons did, truth be told, **[13]** but they wielded their flames with such frequency and nonchalance that they gave humans the impression of the entirety of Hell being obsessed with fire. There were some Bible passages that took quite a lot of inspiration from those demons, too, which only served to further cement the impression. Those guys really got around.

Not that Crowley _never_ used hellfire, himself. He simply found it a bit heavy handed. On those occasions when he needed fire, the regular old Earth stuff usually got the job done.

“Need a light?” he’d ask the here-or-there closet smoker. They could be the cleverest, sneakiest S.O.B. this side of Roald Dahl (or the Dahl in old Roald’s imagination **[14]**), but they couldn’t outsmart Crowley’s nose. They couldn’t resist a tobacco laden temptation, either. **[15]** Crowley lit their cigarette, made one minute of small talk, and cleared out to a nice lookout spot. Closet smoker’s parent/best friend/crush showed up, confronted closet smoker – “You swore you quit! You _lied_ to me!” – and boom go the fireworks.

See? When he had need of fire, he produced it. Didn’t even worry with lighters. A little sleight of hand fooled most anyone. Those it didn’t fool? Meh. Let them wonder. If it lead to a crisis of faith, so be it. Demons like that kind of thing, anyway.

But now, Crowley had more to lose than ever before and no one to help him. Well, Aziraphale could obviously help. He was a holy warrior, recipient of a sacred flaming sword. However, he gave the sword away. Twice. If that didn’t spell “maybe the Guardian of the Eastern Gate needs a little guarding,” nothing did.

He traced the edges of the ad with a fingertip, severing it cleanly from the center of the newspaper. The square of paper was no larger than his palm and looked completely innocuous. Held up to the late afternoon sunlight streaming through his office’s tall windows, the print on the other side showed through the ad.

_Shrewd as serpents, innocent as doves._

_Innocuous; dangerous as fire._

Small print at the bottom directed interested customers through the steps to receive a free sample. That sounded reasonable. Right? Right. Burn it to ashes with hellfire, state your circle of Hell or your current Earth city, and then your name. The free sample shall arrive forthwith. **[16]**

With the slightest little effort, Crowley summoned the slightest little hellfire. It wasn’t difficult: think it, be it. Turn oneself into a channel for the infernal flames, for the weapon which dwells in the charred hearts of all demons, and there you have it. The heat arrives.

The ad went up in smoke, 1.17 seconds flat. **[17]**

A disembodied voice stated “Location.” It sounded both robotic and put-upon.

“London,” Crowley said.

“Name.”

“Anttthhhhh…” He caught himself in the first syllable of his first name. Shouldn’t use his real name for this, should he? Hell needn’t know he was doing this. Nobody down there had much residual fondness for him since the failed apocalypse and Aziraphale’s holy water bath in Crowley’s body, did they?

For two, it was embarrassing. The great, impressive Anthony J. Crowley (née Crawly), who survived execution in the aforementioned holy water bath, ordering samples of a hellfire enhancement? Needing a little boost to the size and stamina of his flames? Wanting to last longer? _Nope_. This was need-to-know information, and not one single, solitary, eternally damned entity down there had need to know _anything_ about this. In fact, not one entity up here, or _Up There_ had need to know, either. Not even a sturdy, Earthbound angel needed to know.

“Location and name, respectively: _London. Anttthhhhh._ Correct? State ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

“No,” Crowley said. He could’ve sworn that the voice sighed.

“Location.”

“London.”

“Name.”

Thinking on his feet, which he was very good at, Crowley recalled lyrics from a song that played often in the Bentley.

“Mister Fahrenheit.” He sat back in his throne and answered “yes” to the put-upon voice’s clarifying questions, and hoped that he hadn’t screwed up.

* * *

**1** Please forgive the purple prose. Crowley has been hit dead center by a lorry full of feelings and he is, at heart, a master of melodrama.

**2** The first Adam, obviously. God had nothing to do with Adam Young.

**3** Comparing Aziraphale to the Almighty would be an uncomfortable thing, should Crowley pause half a second to reflect on it, but he’s busy at the moment.

**4** For the record, no portions of demonic nor angelic corporations literally sizzled. This note is meant for clarification, not to insult any dear reader’s intelligence. The author feels that this is a necessary statement, considering the effects of holiness upon the unholy and vice versa.

**5** He’d be a fluffy, adorable polar bear. One that could snap the moose in half with a single swipe, yet smile so disarmingly that the bifurcated moose would leave this mortal coil with a spring in its step. (This illustration got a little out of hand. Apologies.)

**6** Several newspapers, actually, but nobody mentions _Hellish Hours_ or _The Holy Herald_. Subscribers only get them for the sudoku puzzles and crosswords, respectively.

**7** Is that an accepted saying, or simply a lyric from a Nirvana song? Crowley didn’t know. Crowley also didn’t care.

**8** There was, presumably, at least one angel and at least one demon who could toss the Great Pyramid of Giza around like a Frisbee. Crowley was not the demon for that job. He didn’t think that Aziraphale was the angel for it, but that proper old bookworm was full of surprises. He only _looked_ like a tartan marshmallow.

**9** With any luck, there won’t be another version. Let’s all hope that, should a new version be developed, it will be during the lifetime of Mr. Newton Pulsifer.

**10** And a very convenient excuse for more dates- _ahem,_ quality time between friends.

**11** The saying, Crowley, is “two heads are better than one.” Even if there’s precisely one (1) braincell between those heads at any given moment.

**12** Plants don’t have toes. On their roots? No, that’s stupid.

**13** *cough* Hastur *cough*cough* bloody _HASTUR_

**14** Roald Dahl worked as a spy during World War II. Sources differ on his efficacy. Crowley didn’t know the guy, as 1) Dahl spent his spy time in North America, and 2) Crowley focused on his own wartime spy work tracking the naive movements of a somewhat gullible angel.

**15** As if Crowley could resist one.

**16** Within a 24-hour time period. If you are not satisfied with service or product, GO FUCK YOURSELF.

**17** Yes, 6.66 seconds would have been funny, but entirely unrealistic. This story would be nothing without strict believability.


	2. I'm Floating Around in Ecstasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is too high on Cloud 9 to realize that he might have made a mistake.
> 
> What was that? A plan which backfires terrifically on our favorite short-sighted demon? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> **  
>  _This chapter brought to you by Fahrenheit 7000! Beats the HELL out of Fahrenheit 451!_   
>  **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With more art by Gayngels! Follow them on [tumblr](https://sun-glasses-at-night.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/gayngels)! They're still pretty dang cool.

* * *

“I should’ve known.”

Yes, he really _should_ have known. One does not get a free sample from a Hellish company without a catch. A transcendentally _annoying_ catch. A pestiferous catch which one cannot _catch_ with anything approaching ease.

Figured.

Said catch perched on Crowley’s table and cooed softly. It had the mostly black coloring that Hell-issued animals typically did, as well as the flaming eyes and the smoke pouring from its nostrils with every breath.

Crowley couldn’t use magic on the creature without consequences. He’d heard about another demon who tried that, whose mind went so addled from the results that she disappeared for centuries. She leapt into one of Hell’s deepest pits, thinking she would escape, but… No luck for her. When she emerged literally sitting on the consequences, no one quite knew what to think, other than, “Let’s not do _that_ , then, hm?”

The creature cooed more. Crowley sighed. He had to get the sample, a small bottle of The Tingles, untied from the creature’s leg or it would never leave. _Literally_ never leave. No exaggeration. Until he obtained the bottle, that _thing_ would stay in his flat forever if need be, flitting about, dropping its- its _droppings_ every which way it went.

Revolting animals, pigeons. Hell pigeons? Exponentially worse.

Crowley approached slowly, his feet making nary a sound nor sudden movement. Victory was in reach when the worst happened: the phone on his desk rang. The pigeon fluttered its wings and flew to the other end of the desk like an upside-down bomber helmet.

Before the phone could ring again, Crowley snatched it up and whispered, “Yeah?”

“Are you all right?” It was Aziraphale. It was always Aziraphale, on this phone.

“Uh-huh.”

“Ah, well. Ah. Just phoning to let you know that I’m ready when you are!”

Watching the pigeon, Crowley kept whispering. “There’s ten minutes yet until I’m due at the bookshop.”

“Only wanted to remind you.”

“What, like I’d forget?” Crowley asked, too loudly. The pigeon chirped and cooed, and flew to a sculpture standing near the wall. Crowley swore under his breath.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nothing, angel.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m _fine._ Promise. I’ll see you in ten-” Crowley glanced at his watch. “Nine minutes.”

“Basket’s all packed.”

Crowley smiled. “Looking forward to it.”

He wouldn’t miss it for the world – or for a stupid pigeon straight from the bowels of Hell.

They ended their call, and Crowley tiptoed over to the winged rat currently perched on his Maltese Falcon. As in, _the_ Maltese Falcon.

“The only reason I haven’t spiked you like a volleyball is that I have a very important appointment in-” Crowley slooooowly twisted his wrist so that he could check his watch again. “Eight minutes. I don’t have time to deal with a second one of you. Understand?”

The pigeon, it could be said, did not understand.

In complete agony, Crowley lifted his hands as slowly as he could manage, given the circumstances. The sample tied to the pigeon’s leg was almost his when the feathered piece of garbage took flight. But Crowley, the snake of Eden, struck with lightning speed, snatching The Tingles as the bird lifted off from the falcon statue.

With a cry like that of a centenarian choking on a saltine, the pigeon disappeared.

“Good riddance,” Crowley said, then reasoned, “Bad riddance?”

Eh, it didn’t matter. He had his tiny Tingles bottle, which he absolutely was _not_ going to take a chance on right before his date with Aziraphale. The stuff might work, but it might have some freaky side effects, too.

Date! _Date!_ He had seven, no, six minutes before he was late for a very important date. Potentially the most important date of his life.

Crowley left The Tingles on his desk and left to pick up his date.

* * *

Aziraphale really knew how to throw a picnic. He knew how to consume gross matter in a way that drove Crowley wild, too. Crowley wasn’t that big on sex – contained an awful lot of kissing, sometimes, and other messes that simply did not appeal – but he was _huge_ on watching his date eat.

Date _._ He couldn’t get over that. Six thousand years, and they’d finally put a name to one of their outings. _Date!_

When they arrived at their secluded corner of the park, Aziraphale had provided an enormous puffy blanket to lie on. Now, he provided two small pillows which they judiciously applied[1] and then sprawled on their backs, sated, sipping wine. As they talked, Crowley noticed Aziraphale’s left hand on the blanket between them, creeping closer to his own right hand. He relegated his wine glass to his left and made sure not to gesture wildly with his right. They hadn’t held hands since their first few kisses, and before that, not since the night of the wannabe apocalypse. Crowley was keen to do it again.

After drinking two, four, six, eighteen – who knows? – glasses of liquid courage, their hands bumped. Trying his best at a flirt, Crowley linked his pinky with Aziraphale’s. That small gesture stirred up the proverbial butterflies, which was rather a pleasurable sensation in this type of encounter, as opposed to ones in which he might be crushed by a miffed demon prince over one misplaced word.

Their conversation evaporated as Aziraphale dissolved into a fit of giggles. Crowley took a sip of wine, waiting for him to stop, but he didn’t.

“What’s so funny?” Crowley wasn’t offended. Just curious.[2]

“I- I don’t know, precisely. Suppose it’s, well.” Aziraphale tugged Crowley’s pinky with his own. “This.”

“In that case, what about this?” Crowley covered Aziraphale’s entire hand with his.

Aziraphale only giggled more. He apologized, and clutched Crowley’s hand.

“Oh, my dear, it’s only- I’ve always wanted to do these things. And now, we can!”

Feeling braver and freer than he ever had, Crowley brought Aziraphale’s hand to his smiling lips and kissed his knuckles over and over. It wasn’t the mess he had always associated with kissing, but he suddenly thought, if it _were_ messy, he wouldn’t be opposed to it. What a surprise _that_ was.

Crowley rolled onto his side and cradled Aziraphale’s cheek, pulling him close for a light kiss to his smiling, cherubic[3] mouth. Then another, and another, and another, and-

Their first few days of kissing were not a messy affair, though they _had_ opened their mouths for that. They’d even ventured to involve their tongues occasionally, but the contact was cautious and exploratory. Now, with Crowley half on top of Aziraphale, passion entered the equation, and they went past simple exploration. The tandem glide of their tongues, the opening and closing of their mouths… It was electrifying. How was it that kissing had never felt like this before? How was it that he wasn’t discomfited by this exchange of fluid?

Probably because Aziraphale was special. The most special.

Leaning on one elbow, Crowley sneaked his opposite arm under Aziraphale’s back and hugged him tightly. There were all these _feelings_ and all these _sensations_ goading Crowley on, and he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His head was fuzzy, and he was filled to the brim with adoration.

Aziraphale’s hand strayed to Crowley’s hair, combing through it with the utmost care. Imagine that. A demon, treated with care! His hand brushed against Crowley’s chilled ear, and his mouth retreated from the festivities.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“Mmmm- you’re keeping me plenty warm.” Crowley leaned in for another kiss, but Aziraphale stopped him.

“Don’t be silly. Here, I brought an extra blanket.” From his oversized basket, Aziraphale produced a fleecy blanket, and flung it across the two of them.

“Won’t do much for a cold ear,” Crowley muttered of the blanket, which covered them from the shoulders down. He teased Aziraphale with a nip to his ear, softly catching the lobe between his teeth. It elicited an “Oh!” and a cascade of titters. Still, Crowley wasn’t sure how to proceed with the ear stuff – tongue? more teeth? – so he moved to Aziraphale’s cheek with smacking little smooches.

Aziraphale drew Crowley’s attention by caressing his jaw. His eyes, silvery-blue that day, regarded Crowley dreamily and seemed to invite more kisses, but he stopped him again.

“If I may,” Aziraphale said, “I’d like to ask something, ah, delicate.”

Crowley’s eyebrows pinched together, but he leaned his head to one side, silently requesting that Aziraphale continue. The angel didn’t like to question things, so when he did, Crowley listened.

Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale asked, “What I want to know is- is- well. What _do_ you think of the, er. Of kissing?”

“Funny thing. Never cared for it before, to be honest. All…” Crowley pulled a face, crinkled up like a Shar Pei in sunglasses. (He needed to remember to take those off if more of these _festivities_ were on the table.) “All wet and _mushy_ and-” He shook his head. “Blehh.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale drummed his fingertips on Crowley’s back. “Then, would you prefer not to? With me?” He had on his I’m-trying-not-to-look-upset-but-I-am-absolutely-getting-upset expression.

“Don’t be daft. This is the first time I ever enjoyed it. That wasn’t obvious when I kissed you back? For three days? And then, just now?”

That sent Aziraphale’s thoughts whirring – Crowley could tell, because Aziraphale’s forehead was especially active.

“You?” Crowley asked.

“The same. Obviously.” Aziraphale’s eyebrows stalled out, meeting in the middle. “Then again, you don’t think it unwise to assume that kind of thing? To think it obvious?”

“Can’t say you’re _wrong_.”

“Then don’t.” When Crowley rolled his eyes, Aziraphale said, “Don’t make that face.”

“You’re a bastard. You know that?”

The way Aziraphale smiled, one would have thought Crowley had composed the world’s most romantic love song. “I’m beginning to think you like that about me.”

Crowley confirmed his suspicions with a kiss. A long, deep kiss, riddled with heat and fervor, and more of that all encompassing _passion_. They exchanged nibbles on one another’s lips, which they both adored. Feeling especially adventurous, Crowley tried sucking on Aziraphale’s tongue. That didn’t go so well – Aziraphale interrupted with giggles, breaking away.

“That was, ah, I don’t know…” he tittered awkwardly, turning a pretty pink from his hairline to his collar.

“Not your thing?” Crowley asked.

“No, I believe not. But let’s try you.”

It was _definitely_ Crowley’s thing. His mind went fuzzy again, but a batshit thought rose from the depths anyway, to remind him of The Tingles. If that stuff made him shiver and quiver as lusciously as doing _this_ did, then he’d bathe in it every day.

Their kissing went on until the sun dipped down to touch the horizon. Going that long made it snogging, didn’t it? Or, what was it the Americans called it? Macking off? No, not that. Jacking- ohhh no, that was something very different, and Crowley wasn’t certain that he was correctly equipped for that euphemism.

 _Making out!_ Right. Crowley was _making out_ with _Aziraphale_. He would have kept on making out with him, too, if Aziraphale hadn’t stopped and stated a desire to pick up and leave.

“It’s getting dark, and cold, too.”

Crowley considered pulling the blanket over their heads for warmth and pointing out that demons could see in the dark, but that seemed a bit much.

During their walk to the Bentley, Aziraphale gasped like he’d been jabbed in the ribs, and gestured at a nearby tree’s branches.

“Look! A dove,” he said.

“Blehhh. Just a fancy pigeon, that.”

“No, a _dove._ ”

“Same thing.” Crowley wagged a finger toward the bird. “It’s a pigeon, but people think it’s special because it’s white. I swear. Saw it in a video, somewhere on Twitter.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “ _Twitter._ Reliable source for avian biology, I take it?”

“They’re nothing more than rats with wings.” Crowley shuddered, recalling his own winged rat problem from earlier.

“I thought you liked rats?”[4]

“I find them _useful._ ” Technically, Crowley hadn’t lied.[5] “Pigeons don’t even have that.”

“Carrier pigeons,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Sod off.”

“Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, dear. Not now.”

Crowley side eyed him, matching Aziraphale’s grin. And, holy shit, his cheeks felt hot, and _tingly_. Who knew that a demon could blush?

* * *

Crowley drove back to his flat in a daze, so high on Cloud Nine that the Bentley’s wheels didn’t once connect with the pavement.[6] Aziraphale had bid him goodbye in the car, dashing Crowley’s hopes for a nightcap in the bookshop, but then they’d kissed goodnight. Aziraphale leaned over, hand on Crowley’s shoulder, and planted one on him like it was something they’d always done.

Maybe he was playing coy, but flying-fucking-bat-flaps, could the angel do it well. Why that should fluster Crowley, after they’d spent hours snogging in a public park, he didn’t know. Didn’t care, either.

Up in his flat, the bottle of The Tingles _almost_ shook him from his reverie. “I’ll test you out in the morning,” he told it, and spent his evening watching YouTube videos without paying enough attention to them to bother stirring up shit in the comments. There was a mental video reel of his own running nonstop, replaying the picnic, and the days before it. The reel continued after he exited YouTube, turned out the lights, and went to bed.

Crowley closed his eyes, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Aziraphale. That wasn’t new, and thus that aspect wasn’t too distracting. However, they had _kissed_ and _kept kissing_ and _Crowley had liked it_. He’d wedged Aziraphale between the ground and his own slender body, and the memory alone overwhelmed him with that tingly sensation all over again.

Ah, shit. The Tingles.

Unable to sleep, Crowley gave up altogether at the reminder of the Hell pigeon’s delivery. He threw off the covers and stalked to his office, where he glared at the bottle for a solid ten minutes.

“You’re supposed to help me,” he said, “not annoy me with your _pigeon_ and whatnot.”

The label listed directions, but they were, naturally, confusing as _fuck_. Stymied as to whether he should consume the contents or apply them to his skin, he opened the bottle and hacked horrifically at the odor. Some sort of astringent liquid hid in there. Holy damn, did it reek – and this came from a being who had spent a large portion of his considerable lifespan in literal Hell. The stink of that place was… It was Hell. No further description necessary.[7]

It stank badly enough that Crowley refused to allow it anywhere close to his taste receptors. Anthony J. Crowley, who had swallowed rats and whole rabbits while in his snake form, and on one memorable occasion, an entire deer,[8] would not even consider the possibility of _thinking_ about letting one molecule of this putrid semi-liquid near his lips. _That_ was how offensive the stuff smelled.

He took a deep breath, held it, and dipped his pinky in far enough to get a drop on the tippiest, _tippy_ tip of his finger. Wasn’t bad, though true to its name, it did tingle once the air hit it.

“Huh.” He put the bottle back on the desk and summoned hellfire. It felt like it always did – not much besides a bit warm – save for the tippiest, _tippy_ tip of his pinky, which tingled like touching his tongue to a battery.

“Little more, then.” He put three more drops on his pinky. Hellfire made this amount tingle like touching his tongue to three more batteries. Car batteries. It was kind of cool.

“Liiiiiitle moooooore…” His entire hand was now well-moistened with The Tingles. The sensation went beyond tingly and into creepy crawly, until he summoned more of his infernal flame.

In most factories, nuclear power plants, and military buildings, there are warning signs which, when activated, alight with blinking, bright red letters. If Crowley were one of these places instead of a demon, the entire Anthony J. Crowley facility would be lit by blinking, bright red letters.

**MISTAKE**

**MISTAKE**

**MISTAKE**

This no longer felt like batteries or like the creepy crawlies. This was lick-every-finger-and-stick-them-in-an-electrical-socket, bathe with a toaster, roast your hand in gamma rays, get bitten by black widows and rattlesnakes, grab a power line and Tarzan swing across a ravine, white hot **_pain_**.

**MISTAKE**

**MISTAKE**

**MISTAKE**

An untold amount of time later, after Crowley had said/screamed/done embarrassing things that no one will _ever_ know about,[9] he sat in his throne. The bottle of The Tingles was nowhere to be found.[10] One of his hands rested in a bowl of ice water; the other fed strips of the latest issue of _The Infernal Times_ into a shredder filled with acid.

Hellfire enhancements would never touch his skin again. They wouldn’t cross his threshold.

They wouldn’t _dare_.

* * *

**_What Crowley didn’t know was that they_ would _dare._**

* * *

* * *

Deep in the bowels of Hell, there was a sign which read: WHAT YOU DON’T KNOW _CAN_ HURT YOU. Across from the sign, a lesser demon appearing as an attractive a young man with impressive eyelashes, a fantastic scarf, and his black hair shaped into two tall spikes, worked tirefully at his menial tasks.

Another paper to fold. Another envelope to stuff. Another address to write. Another strip of glue to lick. Another stamp to affix.

Somewhere in his thirty-eight towering stacks of papers and envelopes, there was an envelope addressed to:

_Mister Fahrenheit_   
_London, England_

The demon prepared another envelope. He held it aloft, burned it to ashes with hellfire, and blew the smoke away with a strong exhale. The power of his demonic magic mailed it to its destination.

* * *

During a coffee date[11] the next week, new issues of _The Celestial Observer_ and _The Infernal Times_ exchanged hands. On the topic of _hands,_ Crowley did his level best to hide the injury to his. However, injuries borne of hellfire resisted magical healing of occult and miraculous roots. Hence, Crowley used human methods (ointments, creams, random bullshit that the internet should not have recommended but did anyway), and kept his burns out of sight in either a coat pocket or gloves. Neither was pleasant, as they irritated the damaged skin, but his strategy prevented questioning from Aziraphale.

At their little table outside the cafe, Crowley had excuse aplenty to wear gloves, as it was a frigid winter day. It was a nice pair that he’d summoned from raw firmament – as he summoned most, if not all, of his apparel – which had those neat little patches of material at the tips for using a smartphone’s touch screen. This gave him zero-point-four reason[12] to take them off.

Was difficult to turn pages in a newspaper while wearing them, but a few stern looks from his otherworldly eyes over his sunglasses solved that.

Aziraphale scoffed, so exaggerated that he was louder than passing traffic. Passing traffic was quite loud, too. “More of these absurd advertisements! Satan’s Nipple Piercing? Fire Down Below? Spare me, please.”

Crowley’s concentration shifted from _The Celestial Observer_ to Aziraphale faster than he braked his car, and about as smoothly.

“Did you just say ‘nipple penis’ and ‘fire drawn bollocks’?”

Aziraphale laughed too hard to answer. “No!” he wheezed at length, his laughter ebbing away into gasps and titters. “Spare me your jokes!”

“Wasn’t joking, but if you’d prefer I didn’t…”

“Why would I have reason to say anything like that?”

“I don’t know! You’ve surprised me an awful lot the past ten days!”

“Ten days since what?” Aziraphale wiggled in his seat, his long, flirty eyelashes working overtime. He could certainly feel the strength of Crowley’s glare through sunglasses, but ignored it.

Crowley turned back to his paper. “Can barely hear you over traffic this morning.”

“What I _said_ was,” Aziraphale near shouted, “Satan’s Nipple Piercing and Fire Down Below. More stupid advertisements.” Aziraphale flicked _The Infernal Times_ , shaking it for emphasis.

Hearing the ad names leave Aziraphale’s mouth wasn’t un-similar to catching a stun gun between the shoulder blades, as well as somewhere else. Somewhere _down below_. He didn’t even have anything of note down there, either.

“We shouldn’t be speaking loudly about this,” Aziraphale said, waving apologetically at a furious man at the next table. He held a child on his lap; Crowley thought he heard the man mutter about people needing their mouths washed out with soap.

All right, then. Be that way. He would want to wash his own mouth out very soon. Crowley snapped the fingers on his good hand, ensuring that for the next twenty-four hours, all the man’s food would taste like rotten eggs and dirt.

“What did you do?” Aziraphale hissed.

Crowley turned a page in _The Celestial Observer_. “Can’t hear you.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the noise around them quieted, dulled as if they were in a bubble. Maybe they were, in a way. Crowley could still hear the furious man at the next table asking the woman with him if she thought his coffee tasted weird.

“ _Now_ can you hear me?”

“Perfectly,” Crowley said with an eye roll, turning the page. Last page of asinine, angelic, goody-two-shoes bullshit for another week, thankfully. As he read, though, Aziraphale kept peeking over _The Infernal Times_ , the Twin Creases of Concern planted firmly between his eyebrows. Once Crowley was finished, he folded the paper and laid it on the table. “All right. Fess up.”

The Twin Creases deepened. “About what?”

“You’ve been staring at me like I’ll leap across this table and bite you at any moment.”

“Well.” Twin Creases melted into Playful Forehead Furrows above raised eyebrows. “You have bitten me once or twice. These past ten days.”

Crowley made a mortifying noise of shock. “Th-those were _nibbles!_ ”

Aziraphale’s shoulders wiggled, along with the rest of him. “You know how I like a bit of a nibble.” His eyebrows joined in on the wiggling as he bit into – no, _nibbled_ his orange roll.

Crowley’s glasses slid down his nose as he rubbed his temples. “Is this what an aneurysm feels like?”

There was Aziraphale, sat across from him as always, _making a naughty joke_. Sure, sure, Aziraphale _understood_ those sorts of jokes – took him millennia to cotton on to innuendos and euphemisms – so, bully for him? Anyway, point was, he was hardly as innocent as he played, but this? This was untenable. Also a little intriguing, though Crowley was far too bewildered to form an idea of what to do about it.

As if he hadn’t just blown Crowley’s brain with a newly acquired behavior, Aziraphale laid _The Infernal Times_ down and pointed at an ad on the back page. “Hot Hands! I must admit, that one is a little funny.”

That struck close to home; Crowley’s burnt skin prickled like it had a mind of its own. A mind which was slipping into late stage dementia and had only enough awareness left to make Crowley’s life a living hell. And Crowley knew Hell. Then again, there was that saying about idle hands. Maybe a creature as notoriously lazy[13] as Crowley was the ultimate example of it.

“ _Hot Hands_ can’t be why you were staring at me,” Crowley snapped.

“Ah. Erm. No.” Aziraphale put the orange roll back on his plate. Uh-oh.

“What? What’d I do?”

“You haven’t done anything, my dear. Only, I wanted to ask… Er, you- you remember when we discussed the- the kissing. This is akin to that.”

Crowley propped his chin on his fist and put on a sultry voice. “Yeees I remember. Hard to forget.”

Aziraphale smiled, looking soft as a big, blonde Teddy bear.

Which, really, why did Crowley keep comparing him to bears? Was it one of those Freudian slip things? He spared a few seconds to wonder if he’d ever seen Aziraphale in a state of dress less modest than a toga. Strong, broad Aziraphale, uncovered, bared to the demon’s unholy peepers?

No, Crowley would have remembered that. In the back of his mind, a fleeting sense of disappointment registered. His unholy gaze raked down Aziraphale’s front, and he wondered just how much chest hair was concealed beneath that dated apparel.

If Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s ogling, he didn’t show it; his eyes were ever moving, nervous, observing. Leave it to an angel to feel like he had to watch everyone and everything.[14] How many eyes did he have outside of his physical corporation, on the metaphysical plane?

“Come on, angel. Out with it.”

“Alright. Would you ever want to- to- Well. I- I’m not the most experienced, and it’s dreadfully awkward to ask this way, but, wouldn’t want to assume. And, we agreed that we definitely should _not_ assume.”

Crowley held up a palm in a “stop” gesture. “Before you go on, is this a conversation we want to have in public?” Something about Aziraphale’s anxiety was contagious, and Crowley found it hard to concentrate when his "slither into a hole in the ground and ready his fangs" instinct had reared its head. That, or "wrap around Aziraphale in a massive coil and spit venom at anyone who dared approach."

“You’re right. Let’s go to the shop?”

* * *

“ERIC!”

The lesser demon with impressive eyelashes, a fantastic scarf, and spiked black hair startled when his superior bellowed his name. In his fright, he bumped into one of his thirty-six towering stacks of papers and envelopes. The stack collapsed, and like a dominoes display lacking any sense of artistry, it took down three other stacks.

Demons weren’t supposed to cry. Therefore, what Eric did was _not_ crying, but an involuntary action on the part of his corporation which involved ocular leakage of the chemical dihydrogen monoxide. Any human would have been terrified to see it. Terrified!

“Eric, what are you _doing?_ ” His superior barged in, saw the mess of papers, and narrowed their hot pink, beady eyes.

_Uh-oh._

“You have five seconds,” said his superior. Unspoken was the phrase “to entertain me.” If they could be distracted with something funny or dramatic, they might not bring Eric’s corporation to a messy, painful expiration. The last discorporation involved milk and Gatorade, which was just uncalled for.

Eric scrambled among the papers for anything interesting.

“One… Two…” counted his superior.

He found an envelope with a peculiar addressee, and grabbed it. Then his superior grabbed him, by the throat.

“Three.”

“You didn’t get to five,” Eric wheezed. His superior was tiny, only chest-height on Eric, but strong as anything.

“I shouldn’t have to count in the first place.” They brandished a fork. Lots of bad things could be done with a fork.

“Look at this stupid name.” He shoved the envelope at his superior. They squinted, then respirated a noise that was somewhere in the neighborhood of expressing mirth.

“Mister Fahrenheit! Ha! Hahaha!” They released Eric. “Send it now!”

* * *

[ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ)

[1] Under their empty little heads? Yes.

[2] Okay, _fine_ , he thought it was cute, too.

[3] Bit of a misnomer, since Aziraphale was not a cherub, but you’re smart enough to catch the drift, here.

[4] One could insert comments like, “Of course a snake would like rats,” but that doesn’t match the spirit of their conversation. It wasn’t about food. Although, while we’re on the topic, Crowley prefers rabbits, but will settle for rats in a pinch.

[5] The best kind of not-lying.

[6] Not that uncommon an occurrence, truth be told, but still a notable one.

[7] If you _must_ know, you nasty creature, it involved a lot of B.O. Like a locker room, but full of _demons_. Sorry you asked, now, aren’t you?

[8] In Crowley’s very shaky defense, he had dabbled with local, er, substances, and got carried away.

[9] Not even us.

[10] But what a surprise to the astronaut who _would_ find it in 2593 AD.

[11] _Date._ Yup. Someone might still be reeling at the term.

[12] Closer to 2.4 reasons, but Crowley was too stubborn to acknowledge them. What were they? Reason the first: as stated, the material irritated his burns. Reason the second: they didn’t make him look all that cool, in his mind. Reason the zero-point-fourth: Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s hands, to be specific. To be more specific, _holding_ Aziraphale’s hands.

[13] He would argue that he was efficient, not lazy. Sloth was a deadly sin, though, and one Crowley had every right and even duty as a demon to indulge in.

[14] Was this a case of the pot calling the kettle black? A bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up, y'all.
> 
> P.S. - Nobody clicked the hot singles ad, I hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Story name and chapter titles are taken from "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen. I might normally joke that that's awfully _basic bitch_ of me, naming a Good Omens fic after Queen lyrics, but nothing about Queen is basic. 😎
> 
> Everyone has heard it, I'm sure, but just in case: [click here to watch it on YouTube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHi9mKq0slA)
> 
> The first chapter is smut free, but trust me, we will eventually earn that E.
> 
> I am still a habitual over-editor, AND I'm posting before my beta has had a chance to comb through this, so don't be surprised if the wording or formatting changes a little bit over time. I'm trying not to be That Guy™ anymore, but it's harrrrrd.


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